Corpus Amoris
by beckett77
Summary: The Body of Love:  A series of vignettes depicting different parts of Jim and Spock's bodies and each other's reaction to them – Varying Lengths
1. Jim's Left Knee

**Jim's Left Knee:**

* * *

The wayward captain could not be found, either by ship locator, by comm., or by grudgingly recruited searchers.

However, he _would_ be found by Spock, even if the half-Vulcan (apparently) had to search personally. The man always disappeared when there was paperwork to be done. This time Spock would not allow the captain to slink away, leaving him to do the tedious task, and so put all of his considerable skills into locating his superior officer.

The Enterprise was a large ship with many decks and corridors, but there wasn't a ship in all of Starfleet big enough to hide someone Spock wanted to find. He had Captain Kirk within 32.8 minutes.

He was in Engineering, of course, no doubt being abetted by Montgomery Scott in his duty shirking, if the Scottsman's sidling exit, as though he hoped that moving sideways would keep him invisible to Spock's notice, was anything by which to judge. Spock let him go, but filed away the lieutenant's complicity with the captain for future reference.

Instead of reprimanding the engineer, he homed in on his quarry. Kirk lay on a low wheeled cart with a table-like top slid beneath the engine of a damaged shuttle. The once shiny silver surface of the cart was marred by dents and caked filth. His own fastidious nature recoiled, but Spock thought it somehow fitting that the captain would be comfortable here.

"Captain, this vehicle hardly requires your ministrations. It is scheduled for full repair in eight hours."

His voice was sudden, its smoothness discordant in the tinkering roughness of engineering. Under the shuttle, Kirk jumped.

"Shit. Fuck. Damn. You found me even faster this time."

The damaged cart shot out, the captain prone atop it.

"By the way, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Jim? It's really very rude of you to expressly defy my orders. Maybe even insubordination. I'll need to look into that."

If _Jim_ thought that he was going to distract Spock from his mission with idle chatter and an empty threat, he was very much mistaken.

"If indeed, you ever 'looked into' regulations, you would find yourself in violation of them at least 33.33% of your time. Furthermore-"

But then he looked down and the entire discourse on proper deportment for Starship captains he had prepared for the occasion fled from Spock's mind.

Jim wore his black regulation trousers, but cut short, to three inches above the knee. With his knees exposed to the air, Spock could see the mechanical fluids that had run from the shuttle, filling in the pale skin's cracks, painting them in spider webs of soot. He could see the shape of their bones, their protruding nature, the strangely endearing way they curved together. But foremost, he saw the red rivulets that flowed down the left one, pooling into odd shapes on the metal below.

"Captain, you are injured."

The prone man looked up at him. Had that anxious voice actually issued from Spock's mouth?

The First Officer was a military man, who had seen death and injury, and had even witnessed Kirk wounded on many occasions. It was strange that the sight of his blood would _disquiet _him so (not alarm, not terrify –he told himself he was still a Vulcan after all). Perhaps it was the unexpected nature of the seeing. Yes, that was it; nothing at all to do with the painful palpitation of his heart in realizing that danger really was everywhere in their lives. And that the captain was so very fragile.

Jim inspected himself with disaffected curiosity. He was forever being wounded. The human's frequent incurrence of injury, coupled with his hatred of being worried over, fostered a distressing disregard to his person.

"Huh. I guess I am. Didn't even feel that slice, it's a pretty big one though." He winced. "Now that you mention it, it stings like a bitch."

Having gone to the cabinet on the far side of the room to retrieve emergency supplies, Spock's superhuman hearing only registered the words vaguely. Long green fingers sorted through the jumbled med kit with precision, finally resting upon gauze and a bandage. Disinfectant followed. Gathering the items, he returned to Jim.

Kirk eyed him suspiciously.

"Why do I feel like you have a hypo hidden somewhere?"

Spock knelt by his side, handing him the medical gear.

"Hold this. Because you are innately wary of the positive regard of others. Disinfectant."

He doused the cut, ignoring Jim's hiss and, being careful to avoid skin to skin contact, efficiently bandaged it.

Jim flexed experimentally. Signs of undue stress did not appear on his face, in fact, a grin bloomed instead; an inner tightness Spock hadn't been aware of loosened at the sight. "Is there anything you aren't good at? Bones couldn't've done better." As though realizing the treachery against Dr. McCoy he'd just uttered, Kirk whipped his head about, seeming to search for the man.

Spock felt inordinately pleased. He didn't think he would tell the doctor about the captain's comment, but it would serve as a touchstone inside him when he bore McCoy's insults.

He cleared his throat, a nervous habit from childhood.

"However, he is, regrettably, the best the Enterprise has to offer and, as I do not relish being subjected to another of his specious speeches, I will take you to Medical Bay for full treatment."

The light in Jim's eyes suggested he was going to argue, but with a resigned sigh, he let himself be taken to Sickbay instead, leaning heavily on Spock's shoulder the whole way.

He even did his paperwork when Spock brought it into his personal sick bed (of course the captain would have an allergic reaction to the motor fluids), though Spock believed this was because he stood over Jim the whole time watching his every move for signs of escape.

Jim let him think that; however, he knew it was because Spock had admitted to regarding him positively.

* * *

**Hello!**

**I really wanted to do a series of loosely connected slash-tastic short stories and scenes. These will all be of varying lengths (this one's pretty long) and will get progressively sexier/more intimate as we go.**

**Thank you very much for reading, and I would really love to hear from you. Any feedback you have would be great :)**


	2. Spock's Big Toe

**Spock's Big Toe:**

* * *

It stuck out of the snow, a sickly shade of blue-green, like sullied seawater.

Bruised and dirty as it was, Jim had never thought a toe so beautiful in his life.

* * *

They were on a planetside exploration detail when a freak blizzard the sensors hadn't been able to detect blew up on them.

Spock was scanning flora a bit further off from the rest of the group than was kosher, (Jim never could find it in himself to call Spock back when exploring clearly made him so happy), and was hidden by the fierce gale.

Overriding the crew's protest, the captain had herded them into a sheltered clearing where Scotty could pick up their vitals and beam them aboard. When the last one was gone, he stayed behind to search for Spock.

No one else needed to be endangered, and honestly, what was the ship to him without Spock on it?

An uncomfortable question that he preferred not to think about, even as his actions provided the answer.

* * *

Looking at the toe, he didn't question how Spock had come to lose his footwear, choosing instead to dig around the digit, searching for the rest of its owner.

Rapidly he unearthed the First Officer. He lay face down on the ground. _Oh God_. He was so still. So very still. With trembling hands, Jim scrambled to turn him over, searching for signs of life.

Spock's chest – clad in Science blues that almost exactly matched his frigid skin – rose and fell.

Relief pounded in Jim's veins like adrenaline, making his head dizzy. His Vulcan was still breathing.

He flipped open his comm. "Kirk to Enterprise. I've got him. Lock onto my signal and get Chekov to do his thing; there should be a slightly warmer area right beside me. Don't beam us up until you're sure you have us both."

Body protesting the cold and the strain, Jim dragged the surprisingly heavy Spock upright and tucked him under his arm like one would a child. He chafed Spock's skin, checking for frostbite and willing warmth into the form. Under his ministrations the horrid blue faded somewhat, though his First was still far from his normal rosy green.

Just as the wait became unbearable, he felt the pull of the transporter, the dissolving of his form. Spock came with him.

Kirk smiled through his anxiety. So long as Spock was safe aboard in the captain's domain, he would be alright.

Jim simply wouldn't allow for any other outcome. Ever.

* * *

**Oh my goodness, so many line breaks in this one. It looks like it has stripes: :)**

**Thanks for reading, and I would really love to know what you think!**

**Especially if you think even Spock's toes are sexy 0.0**


	3. Jim's Eyebrows

**Jim's Eyebrows:**

* * *

The way the man sat in the chair perpetually fascinated him. Often, he sat in an irritating sprawl; a lazed, indolent form of ownership, stretching his full body across the seat, like it was his only support. But other times, he sat tight, focused, all traces of lolling erased. It was typically only during crisis that he snapped to, but sometimes, he sat upright without any noticeable stimuli.

Now, for instance. The Captain's feet were planted firmly on the floor in front of him and he leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin. His expression was far away; what he was thinking of, Spock could not deduce.

It intrigued him nonetheless.

He watched from the Science station, performing his duties on autopilot. With his free attention, Spock indulged his curious nature and set about figuring the course of the Captain's thoughts. He scanned the Captain's body language, observing his expressive human face.

The investigation was soon forgotten however, as he looked at that face.

He was lost among its planes and Spock's intellect turned instead to mapping the visage's features.

He took in the regular, nearly symmetrical nature of the Captain's countenance, noting the beauty there - a nearly universal type which was appreciated by most Federation cultures. What continually caught his notice however, was not one of the face's more obviously attractive points, like the mouth or large eyes. It was the Captain's brow, which was furrowed in his deep thought.

Small lines, the beginnings of grooves of age, folded into the skin between his eyebrows. It made the Captain appear….steadier, more serious, than was usual. Spock wasn't given much to premonition, but the deep spiritualism of his father's race came alive as he looked at those small lines.

He could see what kind of man the Captain was, the kind of man he would be in the future. He was a man of integrity, character, compassion, and intellect, but also action – an indelible force that would sweep along, effecting all in its path. He shuddered internally, feeling wary of such potency.

The moment passed and not wishing to be left out, his mother's heritage came alive to note that the Captain would only become more attractive as he aged, growing into the ripened handsomeness that more years would bring.

Suddenly uncomfortably aware of the intensity of his gaze, Spock returned to his work. If he'd been more prone to Terran-style outbursts, he would have huffed in annoyance with himself.

There was work to be done. He didn't have time to foolishly entertain visions of his and the Captain's future.

* * *

**Since I always hear about/write about Spock's eyebrows, but never Jim's equally cool ones. :)**

**Hi, I want to thank everyone that's reading this story and I would love to hear what you think, no matter how brief!**


	4. Spock's Eyelash

**Spock's Eyelash:**

* * *

Crewmembers scattered as they came down the corridor, heading back to the bridge, their raised voices as calling cards.

No one wanted to be scorched by the energy that had surrounded them for the past few hours. When they went to the Mess Hall for a quick lunch, the entire room had rapidly emptied. Not that either of them noticed.

"So basically you think that we ought to follow Nogura's orders on this."

Kirk's tone contained a touch of anger, an ounce of disappointment, and a pound of exasperation.

"This is an involved case, Captain, and you are not listening fully-"

Spock's tone was, well with Spock it was hard for most everyone to tell, but Jim knew him to be exasperated too.

They were dealing with the aftermath of a "minor mistake" (Starfleet's not theirs) of mixed up settler transports. Neither of them had had a free shift for the past several rotations, both preferring to work until everything was settled. They were tired (no matter what Spock claimed about needing less sleep) and frustrated (no matter what Spock said about emotions) and seemingly blocked by Starfleet bureaucracy at every turn.

"I'm always listening to you Spockie."

His words dripped sugar, saccharine and cloying. At this point Jim was kinda trying to piss Spock off just for some tension relief.

The Vulcan looked to the ceiling, his version of an eye roll.

"Refrain from calling me by disturbing diminutives. Were you listening, not simply hearing, you would know that while Admiral Nogura's suggested course does follow standard protocol, it is not the only option available."

A slow smile spread over Jim's face. Finally, a breach in the walls of Spock Speak.

"Ah. Now I've got you. Which twisty regulation allows us to make the drop?"

Spock told him, launching into a technically detailed explanation that Jim wouldn't have even really understood a year ago. Basically, it boiled down to the fact that they could circle around admiralty orders and take the misplaced settlers they'd picked up back to their home planet before joining some Federation dignitary function.

Satisfied that Spock could orchestrate the maneuvers, Jim became distracted by the sheer pleasure of hearing the Vulcan's voice and watching his animated (for him) speaking. Plenty of people thought that he was quiet, stoic, but Kirk realized that he could be pretty loquacious once you got him on the right topic.

His encyclopedic knowledge of Starfleet's convoluted rules was one of those subjects; asking Spock about them was largely how Jim had come to understand them so well himself. Jim saw why he'd been considered one of the best instructors at the Academy – there's nothing quite like an enthusiastic teacher who knows their subject in and out.

Jim's smile got wider as he stopped, still listening, resting against the wall, while they waited for the turbolift.

He watched Spock's lips move, opening and closing with precision. He watched his tongue tap his teeth exactly, neatly forming his sounds. He watched the small motions Spock's shoulders and arms made as he warmed to his topic. Jim loved the slight flutters of his hands. And as he watched, he saw one of Spock's dark eyelashes fall and rest on the outward curve of his cheekbone.

Reflexively, without conscious thought, Jim's hand came forward and with a light touch, he caught the lash on his fingertip. He moved his hand back, finger extended towards Spock's lips, which had stopped in mid motion.

"Make a wish."

He looked into Spock's eyes as he spoke and the expression there made his acutely aware of his actions.

Shit, why was he such a fucking idiot? Oughtn't he know by now that Spock couldn't just be casually touched? The last thing he wanted was to make the guy uncomfortable around him.

Jim wished the ship floor would open up and swallow him, but instead he stayed there, unswallowed, finger stupidly stretched.

But then the most amazing thing happened. Spock's open mouth shut and the corners drew together forming a small "o". Hot breath danced over Jim's sensitive finger pad and the dark crescent floated away.

Holy fucking shit. Did that really happen? Spock just _blew_ the eyelash away. Jim was pretty sure he looked like a shocked fish, all google eyes and hanging jaw.

The First Officer looked at him, amusement plain in his non-expression.

"A Terran custom that my mother taught me," he said by way of explanation. "Though, it has been years since anyone has given me an opportunity to wish in such a way."

Kirk, being only human, couldn't help but to ask in a fumbling voice, "Huh. Well then you're missing out. What did you wish for?"

Dark eyes considered him for a moment and then Spock was leaning forward, mouth near Jim's ear.

"That is not a question which you are supposed to ask; however, since I know the wish will never come true, I shall tell you."

The Vulcan's hot breath had been unexpected on Jim's fingertip, but close to his ear, tickling his lobe, it was almost too much for him to handle. _Almost_.

Spock licked his lips and Jim found himself swallowing in his suddenly dry mouth.

"My wish was for a captain who actually listens when I speak."

And then he was gone, leaving Jim bright red and floundering in too much unviolated personal space.

Spock stepped onto the newly arrived lift and looked back at his superior officer.

"Coming Captain?"

Kirk shot him a glare, joining him in the lift.

Smug asshole. Who did he think he was going around and….and… effecting people like that and being so...so _sexy_?

Jim was _so_ going to get him back one of these days.

But probably not today, seeing as how his tongue was still tied and the ghost of warm breath still touched his skin.

Fucking Vulcan.

* * *

**Don't you just hate when you can't think of any good comebacks?**

**Thanks so much for reading and I'd love to know what you think about the story, no matter how short thoughts are always appreciated. :)**


	5. Jim's Hair

**Jim's Hair:**

* * *

It should not bother him. He knew it to be most illogical. And yet the discomfort remained.

The fact that Doctor McCoy cut the Captain's hair short when he performed the operation _should not bother __him_.

The surgical scar, red and raw, should be more disagreeable to his sight, but it was not. Jim's skin was crossed by many scars. Far more than was typical for a human male of his age and socioeconomic status.

He knew because he kept a catalogue of the captain's every hurt – even the ones he would not discuss – in his photographic memory. The small crescent on his forearm, the pock near his left eye, the thin line on the bridge of his nose, the shiny burns on his back he'd gotten shielding Spock in a fire. They and many more were all a part of Spock's inventory.

Spock was accustomed to seeing his captain's skin marked.

What he was not used to was the sight of his scalp exposed and defenseless, making Jim look small and wan, as though he was a sickly child. Without the protection of his sunny mane, the captain seemed a mere mortal, not the implacable force Spock knew him to be.

It scared him, though he was loath to admit it, to be confronted with the captain's vulnerability.

He had stood numbly by, blood still on his uniform, while McCoy frantically wheeled the captain into Medical Bay to treat the split in his skull caused by an alien weapon during the break-up of a smuggling ring. Spock had killed the offender with a single phaser shot as he caught the falling Jim, whose blood was so very red and seemed to cover everything.

It went against all of his deeply held morals and his people's teachings, but Spock could not find regret within himself for the act. Only a certainty that he would do it again if and when necessary.

It had scared him to watch the captain's hair fall, like the rays of a dying star, as he watched from the surgery window. To see him flat out on the table, skin so pasty, body so still. His hands clenched into fists at the memory.

Logically, Spock knew that he would long outlive the other man, that he was four times less likely to succumb to many of the things that would kill Jim outright. But he still persisted in disbelieving it. He _had_ to disbelieve it.

If there ever existed a being who would defy all expectations, who could prove his flawless calculations wrong, it was James Tiberius Kirk.

So he sat in the narrow bedside chair, still in his blood stained uniform that no one had been able to convince him to remove, watching his captain, and waiting for him to wake.

For him, there _was_ no other alternative.

* * *

**Two in one day... I skipped class and got on a roll... Yay for a waste of college education... and slash!**

**Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think (hopefully it wasn't too angsty).**


	6. Spock's Elbow

**Spock's Elbow:**

* * *

He sprinted down the hallway as the countdown began broadcasting from the ship's speakers.

_Shit, shit. Where to hide? _

Suddenly the seam of a hall panel caught his eye. _That would do_.

Jim hurried to it and pulled, grunting with exertion as it slowly rolled back revealing a shallow hollow partially filled with electrical wiring.

He smiled, quite pleased with him efforts and shimmied inside as the numbers continuously lowered. The panel was almost slid back in place when long fingers wrapped around its open edge.

The captain sighed. He'd had a sneaking suspicion he was being followed. In fact, he had a more than sneaking suspicion that Bones had put someone up to tailing him and monitoring his every move. And he was pretty much dead certain that that person was Spock.

It was, after all, unusual for the other man to attend him so closely. But then again, to Jim he'd seemed pretty shaken up about that whole smuggler-almost-killing-him thing; Spock's eyes kept pointedly away from Kirk's shaved head and when he couldn't avoid seeing it, the Vulcan's jaw tightened.

Jim ignored the small pain that blossomed in his chest at the thought of Spock finding him so repulsive that he couldn't even look at him; the same pain that had prompted him to go see the surprised McCoy about a quick-hair-grow cure.

Bones had expressed a spluttering disbelief that Jim would willingly enter Sickbay for treatment and sent him away with an admonishment to "just jump the damn goblin already."

_Hummph_. His First Officer was definitely hot in his own cool way and Jim preferred his company to anyone else's, but he was Captain of the Enterprise, Starfleet's flagship, and he was not going to disrespect that office by behaving inappropriately with a subordinate.

Plus (and his insidious brain whispered more importantly) Spock was far too valuable a companion to lose over something as inconsequential as sex. Because Jim knew that while he might, just might be able to make a far stretch and get Spock into bed, he would lose him in the process. Just like he lost everyone else that got near to him. And he needed Spock more than he needed anything.

So yeah, Bones could go fuck himself with his talk of "jumping." Besides, even if Spock and his girlfriend had been over for ages, Jim still didn't think him interested in sex with men. Not even a man so fine as himself.

A partially repressed sigh escaped his lips. Jim didn't like thinking about these things, so when he spoke it was with a touch more bitterness than he'd intended, "Aren't you tired of being my shadow yet?"

The rest of Spock's face appeared, joining his aristocratic hand.

"Vulcans do not require the same amount of rest as humans and it is impossible, Captain, for one being existing in a three dimensional spatial plane to be a two dimensional light cast of another."

Sometimes he seriously wanted to punch that know-it-all, especially when Jim knew Spock was just being purposely obtuse, but right now he didn't have time for it since the countdown was getting precariously close to its end.

"Whatever. Just get your ass in here." He yanked Spock into his niche and wrenched the panel back in place.

It was very dark, the musty air pressing in from all sides as dust motes danced in the dull light that filtered in from the cracks of the door panel.

It was also very warm, as the electrical currents of the ship hummed beside him and Spock's natural heat filled the space.

It was also very uncomfortable as he stood there hardly daring to breathe, not wishing to be found by the passing footsteps that told of approaching crewmembers, with the bony ridge of Spock's elbow digging into his back.

"Captain, what – mmmffftt…"

With great difficulty, Kirk managed to wriggle so that his free hand covered the noisy Vulcan mouth. He left it there, listening for several long heartbeats as the paused steps resumed, continuing down the corridor. Breathing again, he released Spock.

"Because, I don't want to be found – I want to win. I hear the captain has a great prize in store. So please keep quiet. And also get your blessed elbow out of my spine," he hissed.

"Ah yes, your most illogical form of entertainment. I shall endeavor to silence, as well as to your comfort."

Jim could _feel_ the eye-roll in Spock's voice, but he did not have time for any sort of rejoinder before he found himself spun about, face-to-face with his fellow fugitive. Their chests were flush together, limbs somewhat awkwardly akimbo, and Jim's eyes level with the lips of the slightly taller Spock.

It was more comfortable for his back than the offending elbow jab had been, but far more uncomfortable for _other_ parts of him. Resisting the urge to squirm (which he knew would only make it worse) was a feat in it of itself.

Jim focused on his breathing.

_In and out. In and out._

He was Captain.

He was above thinking about kinky closet sex.

God Damn it, he was thinking about it.

Breathing didn't help anything. It just made him more sensitive to the brush of his chest against Spock's as his lungs expanded, the feel of the firm body against him.

Fuck.

He needed to get out of here before he gave his attraction to Spock away.

No. He could do it. James Tiberius Kirk didn't run from anything…Particularly not sexy things…

Bad Jim. No.

He steeled himself, forcing his mind away to libido killing places (like Sickbay, or his childhood memories).

Long moments ticked by as more and more footfalls roamed the halls. So the hiding pack was getting thinned out. This was going well. Maybe he would win the prize. God knew he deserved it at this point.

A lull in the steps. The hall was empty. Spock spoke, the vibrations of his voice thunder that rolled through his skin into Jim.

"I do not find it agreeable in here Captain. The small amount of floor area in this space in conjunction with its dark and enclosed nature is… discomforting."

"Are you claustrophobic? Damn. We can give up."

Jim began to reach for the crack, but Spock's strong hand stopped his motions.

"No, I am not. My meaning was not clear enough." Jim waited as Spock gathered his words; he had no doubt it was difficult for his Vulcan to do so. This conversation was coming dangerously close to Spock admitting to having feelings – a very rare occurrence indeed.

Spock cleared his throat, one of his little human tics Jim adored, and haltingly began, "It does not… discomfort me physically... rather, it is a psychological discomfort. This place is reminiscent of Ancient Terran coffins… of death… which I do not fear for myself, but that… I fear for you. My mother died and I could not save her... What if I cannot save you?"

His last words were a whispered rush, like a dark secret he wished to disappear. Jim's ears heard Spock, but it took longer for his brain to digest it.

"Well what if I can't save you? I couldn't save my mom either. We all have to keep moving forward, Spock."

Something else clicked in his brain.

"Is this what all of this weird behavior the past few months has been about? Why your eyes slide over me? Why you can't stand to look at my ugly head?"

He saw Spock's eyelids swiftly flutter closed and just as quickly reopen.

"At no time have I found your head 'ugly,' Jim."

Jim.

_Jim._

**Jim.**

His name sounded over and over in his own mind. In Spock's voice. It was something he'd imagined, something he'd needled for, hoped for, dreamed for – to hear Spock call him by name. The reality was much better.

It felt like Spock had just told him that he loved him.

Which was impossible.

His heart, which had flown, crashed. He was stupid beyond words. Of course Spock had feelings. Wasn't he the one always encouraging him to express them? Admitting to fearing Jim's death did not love make. Acknowledging fear made him one hell of a friend and First Officer. The best in Starfleet, the best in the Federation, the best in the universe.

The silly smile that had sprung to his face stiffened. Luckily Spock couldn't see it (he hoped).

"Glad to know you've realized my attractiveness. About time." He made his tone falsely hearty, playful.

A rumble came through Spock's chest.

But then…

Blinding light filled the space as the panel was forcibly removed from the wall. _Damn_. They'd been talking too loud. Jim instantly tucked his head into the space between Spock's clavicle and neck to shield his eyes.

"Figured ya out Cap'n Kirk, ya sneaky bastard you…uh, ah... Mr-Mr. Spock…didna expect ta see ya here, sir."

Scotty didn't do a very good job at hiding his shock at finding the two of them wrapped together in such an _intimate_ manner, but he did do a good job of sending away the rubbernecking crewmembers, many of whom comm-ed their betting pools to claim wins or losses.

Jim couldn't care less about them. All he wanted was to be far, far away from here. He pushed off of Spock and strode out into the hall, captain's mask firmly in place.

"Ya don't wanna know who won your hide-and-go seek extravaganza?" the engineer called after him.

Jim didn't answer, continuing to walk instead.

Oh, he knew who won alright – and who lost.

Him.

He was both winner and loser, for he'd inadvertently sought what was hidden and upon finding it, needed to lose it again.

He just didn't know that he could because it was an uncommon treasure of greatest worth to realize you loved someone else with a soul-searing intensity.

Even if you were pretty sure they would never feel the same way.

* * *

Scotty, the other crewmembers, and Spock all stayed in place watching the captain flee. How could they approach when it was so clear he did not want them near?

Scotty looked questioningly at Spock, who looked away and turned smartly on his heel, heading opposite his captain.

He could barely believe he had exposed himself so. He had called the Captain by name, something he did only in the privacy of his thoughts.

Clearly, he needed to complete a proper meditation, (an already highly difficult task since Vulcan's destruction that was made even harder after Jim's near death), if he had been rendered so unstable that he almost forced himself upon the obviously uninterested captain during a irrational Terran game. No matter how near and enticing the man had been.

He drew a deep lungful of the ship's manufactured air.

Not for the first time, Spock cursed his human heritage that so weakened him to the pull of emotion.

* * *

**I'll bet that if Spock would actually condescend to play properly he'd be excellent at hide-and-go-seek.**

**Thanks to everyone reading/alerting/favoriting/ and reviewing this story. Feedback is rapidly becoming my crack - I really love the supply :)**


	7. Jim's Right Foot

**Jim's Right Foot:**

* * *

The pounding music hurt his sensitive ears and he found the writhing dancers curiously distasteful, which was not typical of his detached, empirical observations; however, he had been in far too many establishments like this to believe that there was any sort of good to be found here beyond the momentary catharsis of intoxication, motion, and sexual gratification.

All of which were things that would be regretted by an average 83.47% of participants the next day.

If he was successful, Jim would not be one of them.

* * *

Upon finding that Jim was not in any of his habitual spots aboard the Enterprise, Spock had gone to Medical Bay, a place he went only when obliged.

Recently, he had come, most illogically, to find the Bay off-putting. Spock knew it to be an efficient, clean, and well-run place of healing that kept crewmembers at optimal health, but his dislike of it could not be overcome by logic. It reminded him far too strongly of human frailty and the times when Jim had laid there, Spock helpless beside him.

Every time he stepped across the threshold, his eidetic memory supplied him with all the previous times he had trod there, and while he came for benign purposes during 76.4% of his trips, the memory of other 23.6% of his visits far overshadowed them. Those were the instances when he came with an injured captain curled in his arms or limp on a stretcher or to see Jim unnaturally still in a bio-bed, and with his hard-to-check emotions threatening to break free.

"Well, well, if it isn't the goblin. Aren't you aviodin' MedBay like a cat runs from water?"

The fact that it also housed a certain Dr. McCoy, who had taken to frequently barraging Spock with angry words when he saw him, was another, more logical, reason for his keeping from the Bay. Though he did have to afford the doctor some surprised credit; Spock did not think his aversion had been noticed by anyone. A bit of information that he filed away in his mind for further review.

"It is merely a human superstition, not scientific fact, that Terran cats dislike water. Rest assured that I am here only to inquire as to the Captain's location and will then leave you to your undoubtedly insipid thoughts."

The skin of the doctor's face and neck slowly turned red as blood rose to its surface. His forehead muscles contracted, forcing the skin into ridges.

"What do ya mean Jim's location? I was fixin' to go get him from the bridge for his physical. He's a week overdue."

"The captain is not on the bridge. After we docked at Omicron Delta and the crewmembers scheduled for shore leave were beamed down, he went to the transporter room with Mr. Scott…"

Spock trailed off and looked at McCoy, who looked back at him with the same horrified expression of dawning knowledge Spock felt on the inside.

"Goddammit," was all McCoy said and without a further word they were gone, hurrying together to Engineering where they _would_ get answers.

* * *

It was after their interview with the engineer, who had violated the unspoken crew code that the captain was not to be trusted alone off-ship, when McCoy rounded from the babbling Scotsman on Spock.

"I'm not gettin' into this. You're the one that set 'im off. Beam down and find him before he does somethin' stupid."

"Forgive me, Doctor McCoy; it seems even Vulcan ears can mishear. I 'set him off'?"

McCoy snorted. A thoroughly undignified sound.

"Don't give me that shit. You've been like same sides of a magnet, repelling each other, since that whack-a-doo game of Jim's. I don't know what was said in your cozy time – don't look at me like that either, the crew talks when they're getting examined – but since then Jim's been all wired up, and now he skips ship, when we all know it's the most important thing in the world to him. So you better go down there and talk to him before something bad happens, and knowing him, it _will_ be something bad. _Especially_ when he's actively looking to forget what's really troubling him."

Spock considered McCoy's argument. He did not find the Doctor's observant nature or presumptions agreeable, but he could not deny the truth of his statement.

Since he had nearly lost control in the most shameful way with the Captain, Spock had been propriety personified, keeping all of his interactions with Jim strictly professional. They were textbook examples of First Officer to Captain communication. It was easier for him to control his urges, (like the desire to touch Jim, to feel his thoughts, to press their hands together, to wrap himself around the musculature that formed his skin… his most unsuitable urges), that way.

It was despicable to his Vulcan nature that he even needed assistance in maintaining control, but Jim affected him so, made him feel so much, that it was a relatively agreeable alternative to lapsing into their familiar ways which put him in much danger of exposure.

"Very well. The captain must be found, and as all other personnel are occupied, it is logical that I be the one to find him."

Spock stepped smartly away, as McCoy's voice echoed after him, "Logical my ass. I can see the worry in you. You'd better not hurt him, you green-blooded dolt."

Hurting the captain was a variable he never even considered – everything he did of late was to prevent hurt from coming to the man. Admittedly a futile task, but one he assigned himself nevertheless. It was comforting to again be assured of the doctor's shallow understanding. He scoffed inside himself; hurt Jim indeed.

* * *

So now he traveled through the pleasure establishment Terrans called a "club," searching for Jim. There were seven clubs on this street alone, but something had pulled him here, to this specific place.

It continued to pull him through the revolving dancers – peoples of many colors and alien races – until he came to the axis upon which they spun.

Jim.

Golden and wild, flowing with deadly grace, he was a slave to the music, but also master of it. The beat seemed to anticipate his motions and rushed to accommodate it, while he twisted in its confines.

A warm fire flickered low in his stomach. It took Spock a moment to process the feeling because it was unanticipated and unfamiliar. Lust.

He desired the man sexually.

But it was illogical. Jim was his friend, his commander, his captain - not one of these facets translated to a sexual relationship. Regardless of how many times he told himself this (1,983 times thus far), the fact remained unchanged.

He wanted Jim.

Watching the dance, the sway of his body, from the edge of the inner circle where he had paused only served to feed the flame.

When a beautiful Andorian woman, emboldened by her inebriation, broke from the swath of faceless people and began to dance with Jim, swept up effortlessly into his step, another emotion sparked in Spock.

It was sickly, painful. It fanned the flames of lust ever higher and transformed them to a bright green.

The new fire propelled him forward into the center, slicing through the orbiting electrons of people until he breached the nucleus.

And when he caught sight of Spock, the nucleus stopped. Not a pause, not a slowing, but a complete stop.

For two point six-nine seconds, their eyes locked and what beat between them made Spock's breath hard in his throat.

At two point seven seconds, Jim's protective lids covered his eyes and he stumbled. It was too late to stop him from overindulging in libation then.

Two point eight seconds and his foot left contact with the floor, right hand rising toward the Captain.

Two point nine seconds and the Andorian woman caught his arm possessively, cutting off the First Officer. She scanned for the source of Jim's disturbance, eyes and antenna stopping on Spock, whose arm was still up and obviously out of place in his science blues.

"Zzddoo not vorrry. I half 'eeem." A slurred challenge that turned the fire in his belly a darker green.

"Yesh, 'Pock. How'ddd you get here? Don't worry. Ssshhheee's – there's one uf you right – yepps, one, uno – the lady got me." She giggled, Jim smiled and shifted in her arms, hand tangling in her long silver hair. He looked back at Spock.

"Like yoursss, but not…not so nice. I touched it whennn you were in the healing trance 'ter Delta VI, you know. But it wasn't good like it should have been because you were hurt, and asleep, and I was crying. God, biiig assss tears. I want to touch your hair when it'll be good."

Jim shifted again and groaned, the slender woman now struggling to hold almost all of his muscled weight.

"Need to stop thinkin' 'bout Spock like that. Nothing good can come ov it. And you're pretty."

The woman smiled a little sadly. "I vill steel haf you. Let uussss ggoo."

"The Captain is not to be taken from my sight, let alone this establishment."

"Let me go 'Pock. Wanna forget. Been so long. Pretty girls can still help maybe."

He wrapped the woman's hand in his and lurched unsteadily towards the door. Her face wore a weary triumph.

Spock surged forward and arrested the shorter pair's progress.

Later, Spock would rationalize it to be the over stimulating nature of the environment and lack of meditation, that caused him to act, but that was a lie.

In truth he knew that the captain's willing closeness to the lady, the touching of her hand, the fleeing, was what prompted him to block Jim's progress.

Blue eyes, bleary with drink, but still determined frowned at him. His mind raced. How to stop the Captain?

It came, a desperate plan, flimsy and irrational, but the best he could calculate on the spot.

Spock lifted his foot again, and drove the sole of his regulation boot into the insole of Jim's leading right foot. His force was carefully controlled, not enough to hurt him (though, bruising was 73. 491% likely). It was over in a flash, witnessed by none.

Jim yelped, released the woman, lost his tenuous balance, and fell forward into Spock's waiting arms.

"He is far to incapacitated to make any sort of sexual decisions tonight, Madam. I will take him back to our ship. Good evening."

Aghast, the Andorian stared at him.

Spock briefly examined how he must appear to an outsider at this time, an "unfeeling" Vulcan holding a human in his arms like he was a precious artifact of his lost home _was_ a most unusual sight, but he disregarded it. He cared not for the opinions of others.

A soft voice only his ears could have heard snaked through the crowd. "Are you sure that you do not wish him to be making sexual decisions Vulcan?"

His head snapped back. The Andorian smirked at him and then turned to blend back into the mass.

A green blush crept up his throat.

His eyes traveled over Jim, unconscious in his arms. Beautiful, even in his destructive drives.

The club was warmer than the ship's air where he spent most of his days, but he still, he shivered.

What did he wish?

* * *

**Hello. Long chapter, long a/n.**

**So I'm going to have to admit right now that I kinda disagree with you guys. Spock does totally have that whole motherly thing, but I think of him as a secret recliner guy, like he'd just love to zonk out and do his stuff without being bothered. And Jim's so bouncy, I totally see him rocking to soothe his restlessness...or to piss off Spock. :)**

**Rocking chairs can be irritating as hell.**

**In other questions, who do you think takes the side of the bed closer to the door? **

**I'd love to hear from you and thanks for reading!**


	8. Spock's Arms

**Spock's Arms:**

* * *

His world jolted, moving up and down as though in time with a giant's step.

Wait, a step? Walking?

He considered the motion for a few moments more.

Hmmm…. Yeah. Yep, it definitely felt like walking.

But, no, that wasn't right. His legs weren't moving, therefore, he wasn't walking.

It was almost enough to send his consciousness spiraling back into the dark, but then the niggling question of his motion faded.

Because honestly, he didn't really care all that much.

The important bit was that it was warm here, soothing his chilled skin. A type of soothing to which he could grow accustomed.

He wriggled, seeking more heat, and the world shifted obligingly, holding him closer.

Wait, holding?

His befuddled brain tried to pay more attention to the situation.

And then he processed the sensations on his skin and realized what he felt around him were arms, the biceps muscled and the triceps tense.

Arms, huh.

Someone _was_ carrying him. Holding him. Jim had no idea who it could be, and all of the alcohol clouding his brain was _so_ not helping him figure it out.

Time for a mental rundown of the usual suspects.

Bones?

Nah. He didn't think Bones was strong enough. Not that the CMO was weak, just that Jim was heavy to be carried. Plus he'd probably would have just sedated him and then brought him aboard.

Sulu?

Out with Checkov.

Scotty?

Wouldn't leave the Silver Lady short of impending apocalypse, and maybe not even then.

Uhura?

Hated him with the fire of a thousand suns, though he knew she thought she hid it well. Ha. Like he couldn't feel that blazing-ass heat beneath her overly polite shell.

Giotto?

Went to go see about upgrading Security training.

Spock?

The very name made his muscles clench. But Spock wouldn't be caught dead carrying another person, let alone his drunken Captain who he seemed to hate...

Right?

_Right?_

But suddenly, Jim was more awake all the same. He blinked open a protesting eye.

And came face to face with a shadowed green jaw and smooth earlobe that he knew ended some inches above in a pointed tip. His heart lurched.

"Sp-Spock? What're you doing? Where are we?"

God. What an awful sounding voice, slurred, but dry, like he'd been swallowing cups full of ash.

"Do not be concerned Captain. We are aboard the Enterprise and as you were incapacitated, I am merely assisting you to your quarters as efficiently as possible."

He groaned as a wave of nausea began to swell in his stomach.

"I can walk. Thanks though. Get Bones will ya? Think I'm gonna be sick."

But Spock carried on as though he hadn't heard the captain, though Jim's tired eyes noticed his jaw tighten slightly at the mention of Bones.

Weird. Did the two of them fight again?

Maybe he needed to have a talk with the CMO; Spock was more sensitive than his I-Am-Vulcan exterior let on.

"I will, of course, summon the doctor should you experience great illness, but it would seem that now you only suffer from symptoms of overindulgence in libation, which I, as a trained Starfleet officer, am more than capable of attending."

Ragged laughter creaked from his throat.

"No need to get a stick up your ass buddy, not doubting you. Just, uh, pretty weird for you to do all this." Jim waved his hand vaguely indicating their situation.

"It would be unseemly for the crew to witness their leader in such a state, sir. My duty is to protect the operation of this ship, even if it's from the effects of the captain's foolhardy shore leave escapades."

Jim moaned and leaned back into Spock's chest as disorienting sickness hit him more strongly. "Alright wifey, you win. I'm still too wasted for this."

Spock didn't reply, but his grip did tighten around Jim as though he feared the man would suddenly roll away. Fat chance of that, whatever he'd said, Jim really didn't think he could walk steadily.

Plus, he thought, as rosy hue touched his cheeks, it wasn't like he minded being so close to his First Officer. From here, he could pretend for just a little while that Spock didn't hate him and returned his feelings.

"We have arrived Captain."

"Urgh. Thank fucking God."

"Not an epitaph one often hears sir."

Amusement lit Spock's tone. Jim's weary lips curved in response.

"Need the code?"

But Spock already maneuvering him through the narrow doorway.

"Guess not," Jim muttered. "How'd you get open the door?"

"It is prudent for the First Officer to have access to all parts of the ship, particularly when the Captain is so unpredictable as you," was the distracted reply. Jim thought he was being evasive, but he wasn't up to pursuing it. Another Spock flavored mystery to unravel. Heh. Spock flavored. He wondered what that would taste like…

Suddenly his brain spluttered through the fog, and he was _very_ aware of the fact that he was in Spock's arms, alone in his quarters, without any duties to distract either of them and most of the nosy, gossipy crew on shore leave. It was the stuff of panting, sheet-twisting dreams.

Wow. Way to be a horny idiot. God, he'd been so stupid to think that running out to a club and maybe getting some random hook-up would solve anything. That all he needed was sex. Such a fucking dope.

His stomach churned.

You can't drown love, no matter how hard you try. And try Jim did – he'd spent the night at the bar, shots piling up around him until reality blurred and all he remembered was the booming rhythm calling him to dance. He was going to have to ask Spock how he ended up back on the ship, carried by the Vulcan. Fingers crossed it wasn't too embarrassing of a story. They did still have a flagship to run together after all.

Again, his stomach tilted. Shit.

"Captain?"

Spock's concerned face peered into Jim's.

"Bathroom," he managed to croak.

Comprehension dawned in Spock's dark eyes and he gently set Jim down at the bathroom door. The captain stumbled into the room, which lit up dimly to greet him.

Miserable though he was face in the toilet bowl, Jim couldn't help but to giggle a bit. Nothing sexier than vomiting; if he kept hurling at this rate, Spock would be begging for him in no time. He snorted. Yeah right.

Outside the bathroom door, the Vulcan patiently waited.

* * *

**Hello!**

**I feel like I haven't written in forever. Very busy with midterms and all that. Thanks for reading, and I hope that you all enjoy it and drop me a little review.**

**Oh yeah, I did just totally slip that in there.**

***whistles innocently***


	9. Jim's Smile

**Jim's Smile:**

* * *

Rare was the occasion when he gave into his more human impulses, and far rarer was an occasion when it required he actually fight to master them.

Indeed, this was one of those highly unusual times, he reflected as he forcibly restrained himself from breaking through that blank grey door.

The door that separated them, but at the same time did not.

It gave only the illusion of privacy because Spock's ears could hear clearly all of the Captain's noises: panted breaths punctuated by gagging, mumbled curses, and the splashing of one liquid against another.

The sounds of Jim's illness, unpleasant and discordant, generated in him uneasiness as to the Captain's condition. Sounds that, truth be told, made him long to burst through the door and observe the miserable human with his own eyes.

It had been so long since he had had the sole care of an inebriated Terran (1.3 standard years since Nyota and the rum-induced aftermath of their romance's termination to be precise) that he briefly considered whether he should have acquiesced with Jim's initial request and taken him to Sickbay. But a fierce feeling arose in his chest when he thought about giving over Kirk to Dr. McCoy's gruff ministrations.

He would never put the captain's health in jeopardy, but this time, he wanted to be the one to help him. There were thousands of reasons that they couldn't be together in a romantic sense and Spock acknowledged each and every one, but in this moment, he wanted to be the one beside the Captain.

There was something incredibly tender about the typically bravado filled man in this state, a tenderness that he wanted to protect, to selfishly hold for himself. Something he would have been hard-pressed to believe he would ever feel at the start of their voyage.

By now though, he had seen for himself that Jim was destined to become a figure of legend: James Tiberius Kirk, not a man, but an emblem.

So he wanted to be the one who knew Jim as the person he was.

At his best.

At his worst.

During his triumphs.

And during his liquor-soaked ramblings and regurgitations.

Not Leonard McCoy. Not the yeoman Janice Rand. Not any other being.

He alone.

Spock wanted to have the privilege of knowing the man behind the words that would surely be penned. The human foibles that lay behind the hero persona.

Not for any sort of exploitation or ridicule, but so that he could become indispensible to Jim. His trusted counterpart. An irreplaceable part of his life.

Because Spock thoroughly knew every portion of his body and mind, the exquisite systems linked and twined inseparably, and each of these parts told him with biting clarity Jim was requisite to his continued existence. Life was void without him.

Utterly selfish as the truth was, he could not ignore it. He was no longer alone inside of his body; there was someone else who had taken up residence inside his thoughts in a way that no other being ever had.

Regardless of whether it was ever spoken between them or not, the captain was part of him and Spock refused to go through life with any more gaps. He would remain with Jim in whatever capacity the man would have him. The captain was far too kind to deny him some sort of place in his life, self-serving creature though he was.

The rush of water into the sink bowl signaled Jim's imminent emergence from the bathroom. A moment later, he appeared.

Spock ran his eyes quickly over the other man, looking for any signs of undue distress. Pale faced and slightly unsteady, Jim propped himself against the door jamb.

Shadows sat heavily under his strained eyes, but otherwise, he looked as he always did when he was too tired. Which was far more often than Spock found palatable.

Perhaps he and the Doctor did need to have a private consultation about the Captain's health. Actually, yes. Yes, they certainly did.

Spock added it to the neat mental list in his head, which was largely comprised of Jim Kirk related tasks.

Wonderful was the man, but also quite troublesome. It seemed he was magnetic to _any_ sort of mischief that was occurring in his vicinity at _any_ time. Any mischief in whatever star system he visited.

Spock counted it fortuitous that the Andorian was the only problem he'd found at the club. He suppressed the urge to sigh.

It was far more difficult than he had ever realized to love another. Idly, he considered for the twenty-thousandth time how uncomplicated his life would be if he had ignored his alternate self and gone to New Vulcan, or, for that matter, simply stayed with Nyota.

He looked at Jim. When their eyes met, the Captain smiled his particular smile, his true one that he only showed to those he trusted, and Spock dismissed those thoughts as he always did.

For such a smile, he would endure any number of illogical scenarios.

"Uh, I, um, kinda need help with pajamas if you don't mind…"

Or not. Far too illogical. So much exposure. So much skin. So much of the captain. Too tenuous his hold on his self control.

He heard his voice respond in the positive anyway.

Maybe he was developing masochistic personality traits by osmosis.

Psychological examination became another checkbox on his internal list. Jim Kirk induced mental breakdown was rapidly becoming more and more of a reality.

Why was it again that he did not safely go to New Vulcan?

* * *

**Wouldn't it freaking torture you to have to help Kirk get undressed and then dressed again? It would defeat the entire purpose of the undressing, yes? ;]**

**I need to cure my gutter mind. If there are any suggestions for cleaning up my thoughts, leave them in your review...**

**Thanks for reading. :) **


	10. Spock's Hair

**Spock's Hair**

* * *

The nerves in his head pounded like the force of a thousand feet upon the earth, their receptors in his brain begging for the return of numbing sleep. As much as he wished to oblige, Jim just couldn't. Something had awoken him in the first place.

He could not place what it was exactly, but he knew that he had felt it in his sleep and that it tugged on his consciousness, pulling it from the depths of his dreams.

Fighting their heavy lids, his eyes opened.

From his curled up position on his side, all he saw was faintly shining darkness.

_Shining_?

That couldn't be right. What _was_ this vaguely rounded shape?

He blinked several times, adjusting his sight, and upon a second inspection realized that he was looking at a head of very dark hair in very uncharacteristic disarray resting on the side of his bed.

He still almost didn't believe what he saw, but the pointed peak of an ear poking out from underneath a particularly mussed section of hair confirmed everything.

Spock?

On his bed?

In his quarters?

Asleep?

Did he ever sleep?

Why?

He sat up quickly, clutching his blankets to his unclad chest, while his head screeched in protest. Shit.

His mouth tasted of old alcohol and not-quite rinsed out vomit. Fuck. He was hung-over then.

He eased himself back down, trying to fight through his disorientation to find memories of the previous night, but they were not forthcoming. Nothing beyond impressions of pulsing sound, a shifting world, and an extended meeting with his toilet.

His formerly clammy skin flushed. What the fuck could have happened to end up with Spock here?

Jim turned to look back at the head, and found himself locked in a gaze tractor-beam like in its intensity.

So he'd woken up Spock. Great. He had probably made a total asshole of himself and he couldn't even manage to let the guy who'd obviously helped him sleep in.

"Hey, sorry. Didn't know you would be here. What happened?"

His voice was an unattractive croak and scraped painfully at his throat. He must have thrown up a lot. Ugh. It was a blessing he didn't remember that part; Jim hated being ill.

Spock blinked. "I had assumed it probable that you would not recall the events of the past 12 hours, as the amount of alcohol you consumed is disruptive to short term memory in humans."

He paused, eyes flicking over Jim in cool assessment.

Kirk fought the urge to pull the blanket tighter about him; why did he always feel so naked under that gaze?

Spock spoke again, quietly, like he was confessing a sin, and the captain strained to hear him. "I am glad that you do not remember Jim."

Kirk lost whatever bit of composure he had. His heart began to pulse wildly and his mind seized upon thought after panicked thought, leaping onto the next one as soon as the first was realized.

Spock had called him Jim. That was a sign of trouble, no matter how inappropriately gushy it may have turned his insides. He admitted to a feeling. Gladness that Jim didn't remember. Remember what exactly?

His voice seemed to hold so much emotion too. So much that Jim would have found it nearly impossible to believe that even the worst of observers couldn't hear it. And it was all his fault.

He had gotten drunk – very drunk – that much was clear. And some how or another, despite his clever slip-out, Spock had found him.

What he might have said or done around Spock when all of his defenses and self control, which contrary to popular belief he did have a lot of, were gone was something that he couldn't bear to think about.

His skin prickled and felt uncomfortably tight when he began to imagine what exactly may have happened to produce this response in the Vulcan, the multitudes of ways that he could have offended Spock.

Did he confess his surely unwanted physical desire?

The small fact that he was oh, you know, in _love_ with the guy?

Did he endanger him?

Did he make Spock uncomfortable with his physicality?

His general drunken behavior?

Taboo skin to skin contact?

Worries and embarrassing scenarios crowded and tumbled over each other in his mind, growing to an agonizing crescendo.

"If I did anything-"

"Captain-"

They both stopped, waiting for the other to continue. A few awkward seconds, then Jim reluctantly moved his eyes from the ceiling and turned to Spock, who was now staring down at his coverlet, but still unmoved from his position at the side of Jim's bed.

He didn't think that the Vulcan was aware that he hadn't moved, and this small thing did a lot to ebb the flow of his panic.

If he had behaved in an unforgivably egregious manner, surely Spock would not still be comfortable on the floor by his bed, lapsing into humanness in his presence? Because Spock typically didn't slip out of his hyperawarenes if he didn't trust those around him.

Hope's wings fluttered weakly in the pit of his stomach.

Since Spock had that air of waiting about him, Jim started swallowed and started again, "If I did anything to upset or hurt you in any way, I sincerely apologize. I know that we've been kinda distant, and that it's my fault, I'm a shit friend and I'm sure I was a total ass last night, and that couldn't have helped things, but…" His lips were dry and he paused to wet them.

It was hard for him to say this out loud, to apologize, to be honest, but Spock was worth it to him. Worth every bit of effort that he didn't put in with other people. "I want to do better for you. Please tell me if there's anything we need to talk about."

Turns out he was grateful after all that his voice was already croaky; otherwise it would have cracked like it always did when he was emotional.

Spock was looking at him again, intense, but in a different way than usual. Like a soft intense, like – the wings fluttered harder – like he was looking at Jim and "finding agreeable" what he was seeing.

Before Jim's mouth could smile in return, though, the look changed. His eyes became more distant, inward. Spock had disappeared back into himself, a place that Jim didn't think was particularly happy for him. He suspected that they had a lot in common in that self-loathing way.

The First wasn't getting away with that right now though, not when Jim wanted so desperately to reach him, to find a way to mend the rips that had sprung between them.

"Spock."

Kirk watched his attention come back, but he was guarded now, and stood up, straightening his hopelessly rumpled science blues. Jim tensed, looking up into his stoic face and waiting for the doom that would surely fall.

"Captain, while you did behave in a manner unbefitting of Starship captain, you did not do anything unbefitting as my friend."

Well, that first part stung a bit, but totally true. Sure he was being all formal, but Kirk thought he really deserved much worse. Why was Spock letting him off so easy?

"Indeed, sir, I have not behaved with propriety in regards to you. I am the one in need of pardon."

Jim sat up again, ignoring the whole head splitting thing.

"What are you saying? You've been nothing but by-the-book. Fuck, you've been more proper than you ever were for the whole first six months of this mission. You haven't wronged me."

_Shit, I'm the fucked up one, I've been thinking about you in improper ways for ages. Like naked for instance. And I've been avoiding you and pretending to myself that I'm trying to do something about my stupid fucking puppy-dog devotion. _"I… I'm improper," he finished lamely.

Spock's eyes widened briefly, leaving Jim more confused than ever.

"While I do not debate that you bear little regard for authority, have a surprising adeptness in making a nuisance of yourself, and are oftentimes confident to excess, in our interactions, you have yet to behave in a way that is improper. As my perfect memory supplies, it was not you who nearly asphyxiated me."

"Hey!" Jim protested. "Didn't I tell you to drop that? I started it, I had it coming."

"No, Jim, you were correct. I was too fixated on my own way to see. I was most _illogical_."

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to you call yourself the dirtiest thing you can think of Spock. It's fine and I'm over it. We're both fuck-ups, okay? Can we leave it at that and you can go intimidate Bones into giving you some hangover cure? Please?"

Of course Jim wanted a deeper conversation, a full exploration of why the hell Spock was criticizing himself and possibly the whole story of last night, but it could wait. Neither of them was in any shape for that, and he was honestly happy that things felt almost normal between them this morning.

He had already decided Spock was worth any amount of apologizing. He was worth patience too.

Jim could wait.

He could wait for Spock to be won, or for Spock to be ready to be won for that matter.

He could wait the fuck out of stuff when he so chose.

Starship captain and galaxy-class waiting champ – it was what he envisioned his tombstone would eventually read. And if he also envisioned it being right next to Spock's and even this part of them being eroded into time together, well that was just another function of waiting, wasn't it?

Spock breathed what sounded suspiciously like a sigh. "Of course, Captain, and after you have recovered, we will have our 319th discussion about the duties and responsibilities of the Enterprise's captain."

"Looking forward to it," Jim intoned as he lay back into his pillows.

He waited until Spock's superhuman hearing couldn't catch him anymore before adding, "It'll be particularly rich coming from a guy whose head looks like a haystack."

Jim snickered, and hoped that Spock totally went all the way to Sickbay and back with his hair like that.

And that at least one crewmember snapped a picture of Spock in his uncombed bowl-cut glory.

Because subject of his love or not, that shit was hilarious.

* * *

**Hello! I know it's been forever since I've updated and I really hope that anyone who was reading this is still doing so. School was crazy, but the glorious summer has now begun. **

**Thank you for reading/being patient, and if you want to berate me for being slow, please do so in your review. **

**I am completely shameless. :)**


	11. Jim's Skin

**Jim's Skin:**

* * *

Though he was rarely, if ever, ill, Spock felt decidedly unwell. It was unsettling.

He briefly closed his eyes, and examined his body again, looking for any signs of invading microbes. There were none. He was loath to admit it, but he knew that there would be no sign of infection from the start.

Vulcans did not lie, of course, but truth lay in perception. (And if Spock was choosing not to perceive how greatly his encounter with Jim last night was affecting him, then that was the truth as he saw it.) Emotional turmoil was something that he experienced with frequency, despite his best efforts at calm.

Spock inhaled deeply, savoring the feeling of his lungs expanding, and let the air back out slowly. He had found the inscrutable calm of his home culture increasingly difficult to maintain after the twin losses of Vulcan and his mother. He noted with detached humor how in his thoughts he always paired the tragedies together as though they were of the same cataclysmic scope; perhaps he really was no better than the selfish human part of himself if he considered the loss of one woman on par with the destruction of an entire world.

However, he did not truly believe that; he was too well versed in the study of Terran psychology and theories of intrapersonal relationships. His mother had been worth a planet – to him at least.

Two years, five months, and eight days had merely been enough time to soften his grief; he was a scientist, and did not think it wise to theorize with incomplete information (although he often did at Jim's behest), but he believed that nothing would ever return him to the steely control that had been his before her death.

The loss of the one being whose love for him had always been steadfast had altered his psyche. If he had to ascribe a physical sensation to the feeling, it would be comparable to finding something broken inside of him. Her death had turned the once thick walls around his human impulses atomically thin.

This unbalance was certainly not lessened by extended interaction with James Kirk.

The Captain needed merely to exist within the same space as Spock to illicit emotional responses from him.

He often wondered if he would have been affected by the man if he had not failed to save the life of his mother. The same voice that told him his mourning was not selfish assured him that he would have been. It was, as always, not a particularly comforting thought.

Love was beautiful in its chemical composition and rippling effects, and as disagreeable as it could be, he found it more acceptable to live with it than without it, but he still did not appreciate how it weakened him. Weakness, particularly in himself, was unacceptable.

As last night had shown, he was very weak indeed.

* * *

"Uh, I, um, kinda need help with pajamas if you don't mind…"

Why had he not gone to New Vulcan? What twisted logic had he followed in listening to an alternate version of himself?

"I do not mind, Captain."

He did not make a move forward though. He stood absolutely still, torn inside himself. Jim had given the impression of starting to regain sobriety, but it seemed that he had once again misled Spock with appearances.

As he continued to struggle internally, the Captain started to move away from the support of the door.

"Never mind. I'll manage without I s'pose."

His smoothly muscled arms moved up and pulled at the collar of his shirt. He attempted to remove it over his head, but instead managed to tangle himself in the cloth. Blinded, he backed into the doorway again, half of his back hitting the wall and the other half hanging into empty air. This proved to be too much for his precarious balance, and he fell to the floor, his torso in the bathroom and his sprawled legs in his quarters.

Though he knew that Jim was in no danger, Spock found himself crouched at the other man's side with inhuman haste.

Jim continued to wriggle on the floor, fighting the unconquerable foe of his black tee shirt.

"May I offer you my assistance?"

The muffled response was not really decipherable, even to the Vulcan's ears, but he interpreted it as an affirmative.

He gently lowered his hands to the hem of the shirt trapping Jim's arms. The other man's struggles ceased. Careful to keep away from the broad swaths of his exposed skin (as he had been all night, especially during the torturous walk carrying Jim to the ship) Spock slowly drew the restricting fabric the rest of the way off.

In doing so, he had adjusted his crouch so that he was kneeling, tensed on the balls of his feet for balance. This move had necessitated his leaning forward, so he was very close to Jim indeed when the shirt came off and his face was freed.

Spock had expected to see tightly closed eyelids or a flustered expression. He was instead met with the calm regard of two blue eyes.

They smiled up at him, trusting and relaxed.

He was transfixed by them, remembering a necklace his mother had worn on occasion; a small pendant with a gem hanging from it. As a child, he would stare at the light through it for hours. It had been a gift from Sarek, a small material manifestation of his love for his human wife, and his mother had treasured it.

Jim's eyes were the same color as that gem.

Spock knew that he should move away now that the offending garment was gone, but he could not bring himself to do so – not with those eyes looking at him, and only him.

But Jim wasn't moving either. The expression in his eyes sharpened and their color seemed to darken.

The Vulcan was fascinated.

They were still; neither of them moving and the cool air of the overhead vent began to blow down upon Spock's exposed back.

In 99.796% of his encounters with cold, Spock had been very aware of it, but this time he didn't feel the chill air. In matter of fact, he felt warm. He was hovering over Jim's half-clothed body and the knowledge that he could examine up close what he had only before glimpsed from a room length away was forefront in his mind, almost undoing his resolution to leave Jim untouched.

"My brother had this cool amber bead with a bug in it when we were kids. Used to be my dad's. Never let me touch it. Your eyes remind me of it."

Instead, that statement was what undid him.

It seemed beyond belief that Jim was having thoughts so closely echoing his own.

Suddenly, he could no longer stand the barriers between them. Propriety. Stations. Species. Sex. Skin.

So much skin.

All of his teachings and habits screamed against it, as he tentatively allowed his fingers to slide down Jim's upstretched arm, but he silenced them, concentrating instead on the feel of Jim under his hand.

Feelings filtered into him, feathery soft, but surprisingly defined considering the light nature of he and Jim's physical connection and the captain's psi-null status. He could hardly suppress his wonder at the man's strength of mind, even though he should have been well-acquainted with Kirk's defiance of expectations by now.

He felt the surface of Jim's thoughts. His curiosity at this break in Spock's usual reserve. The uncomfortably quick beating of his heart that he could not control. His anger with himself for drinking too much and loathing of the alcohol circulating in his system that blocked his typically clear thinking.

He was entranced, scintillated by all of these small flashes. He had thought to merely touch would be enough, but Spock realized that it was not. His hunger for Jim's mind was something greater than he had previously allowed himself to acknowledge. His questing hands were drawn inexolerably downward, skimming the slick skin beneath them.

"Spock?"

Jim's voice was small, hesitant, and breathy. Spock had not felt him think of speaking. _Fascinating._

But the sound ruptured his trance. Abruptly, he became aware of his hands, which had crept to the sides of Jim's face. His fingers had begun to position themselves at Jim's psi points.

He drew back swiftly, with a startled hiss.

Shame welled within him.

He had almost committed rape.

The tips of his fingers burned where they had been in contact with the Terran.

To look at the mind of another without consent was one of the greatest atrocities a Vulcan could commit.

He had almost done that to Jim. Had nearly melded with an unknowing and unconsenting being. The captain was not in any condition to stand, let alone agree to joining minds.

"It's'kay Spock. You didn't do anything wrong."

He could not look at the other man. Jim was too good for his own well-being.

(Spock hadn't noticed the undercurrent of disappointment in Jim's voice at the breaking of their contact.)

"You are not fully cognitively present yet, Captain."

Rising to his feet, he moved to leave. Jim struggled upright.

"Present 'nough to know you're upset. I promise to be good. Stay. Please."

This time he noticed the nakedly pleading tone. He had offered to assist; he could not just forsake Kirk because of his own monstrosity.

"I shall bring Doctor McCoy."

"Nope. I want you."

Spock was a strong-willed, stubborn man, but he could not force himself to do what he knew to be proper and leave the captain. His impulse control was non-existent around the man. He loathed himself for it.

He held in a sigh and went to Jim's chest of drawers to remove sleep clothes. _Long_ sleeved ones.

* * *

After that, Jim had been put to bed without further incident, though when he demanded that Spock stay in the room with him through the night, it had been quite taxing for the Vulcan's already rattled nerves.

Still, he had stayed, watching Jim fitfully sleep and failing miserably to meditate.

Spock did not know when he would be balanced enough within himself for the true meditation he so desperately needed, but all of the evidence seemed to conclude that it would not be until he was far, far away from Captain James Tiberius Kirk.

A small snore came from the form on the bed and he looked at it fondly. Living without Jim was not a viable option for him any longer.

Turning away, he grimaced internally, as an unbidden memory of his mother came to him.

He had sat at his homework desk, watching her as she busied herself about the room.

"Mother, why do you not rest? Your body language says that you are wearied."

Her laughter had tinkled forth.

"I'll rest when I'm dead, darling."

At the time, he had not understood the full weight of the words and had continued with his homework.

Now, though, as he felt his bone-deep weariness and fought to ignore it, he thought that a truer sentiment had never been expressed.

* * *

**Duh, duh, duh.**

** Now we know what transpired whilst Jimmy was out of it...**

** God, I was hoping that it would turn out to be some sexy sex.**

**What a tease this author is. Let us all tell her this in our reviews.**

**Or that she's awesome.**

**Either way. ;)**


	12. Spock's Coordination

**Spock's Coordination:**

* * *

The science station was entirely too far away. It didn't make any sense, really, to have it all the way out on the edge of the furthest curve of the arc that formed the bridge's control stations.

Seriously, important information about bio levels and stuff came from there. If Jim stayed in his command chair for longer than an hour, (not that he ever had), he would find himself at great disadvantage when he wanted – scratch that – _needed_ his Science Officer. Who also happened to be his second-in-command and the holder of his deep, dark, secret affections.

So all in all, it was only practical that he not sit still in his throne-like hub and instead pace the bridge. No matter what certain exasperated officers might think about his pacing – for instance the beautiful Communications Officer who heaved a theatrical sigh when he crossed behind her chair for the twelfth time this shift.

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you, but no, we still haven't gotten any sign of, well, anything. And yes, of course you will be alerted as soon as we do – sir."

That sir came a beat too slow for his liking, but Jim wasn't in the mood to throw his weight around. Instead he felt antsy like he had when he was a kid in Iowa before a freak lightning storm had struck, taking out the power for miles. It was hard for him to focus. Something was coming.

"Be that as it may Lt. Uhura, I want you on alert. You never know with unexplored quadrants."

She had the grace to look chastened. "Yes sir," she said crisply.

Satisfied, the captain turned away and moved the next set of steps to the next booth. One, two, three – eight strides and he drew level to the Science Station. The officer here did not acknowledge his presence and merely continued peering at his blinking charts and graphs as though they held the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

"Anything, Commander?"

Spock flicked his eyes from the screens to Kirk. "Negative, Captain. Everything appears to be occurring inside of normative parameters."

Normative parameters, huh? Jim wanted to roll his eyes. He didn't have to look any further than his Vulcan to find something working outside the norm.

Spock was being weird. It wasn't anything as overt as it had been before Jim's drunken mishap, but it was there nonetheless. It was like an annoying blip that showed up on Jim's Spock-dar with alarming frequency. It didn't matter whether they were playing chess or filing their latest reports or leading a landing party, there was always something. The First Officer would move a beat too slow, ignore Jim's dirty jokes a little too pointedly, or do some other small thing to betray himself – generally a thing that Jim wouldn't have noticed if he weren't so desperately, creepily fixated on him.

Kirk decided to be normal. "I dunno, Spock. It just feels weird, like I can't sit still."

The Vulcan blinked placidly. "You do not sit still regardless."

"Oh ho. I'll have you know that I can be as motionless as I like when it's called for." Jim winked, leaving no doubt as to his sexual allusion. He didn't think that Spock would get it otherwise; it was a bit of a stretch even for him.

Yep, there it was. That eyebrow quirk he'd come to love so much. "Indeed," said Spock.

The captain leaned against the edge of the Science Station. "But seriously, I don't like it out here. It feels a little bit like how it did before the Narada." He hadn't meant to mention it, but now that he had he couldn't take it back. Jim half expected for Spock to freeze up on him, like he sometimes did when conversation got too close to the destruction of Vulcan and his mother, but instead he had Spock's full attention.

Spock regarded him seriously. If he'd worn glasses, Jim imagined he would be peering over them like a librarian in an old movie. "If you suspect something is awry, Captain, it has been proven unwise for me to dismiss it. Should I run any specific test?"

The Captain Kirk part of him started thinking of possible tests and the Jim part of him started up the most maddening girlish chorus of "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod." How refreshing it was to not be dismissed. He'd never get tired of it.

Spock had just started his suggested diagnostics when the entire bridge suddenly lurched to the side, tumbling crew members and unsecured command paraphernalia to the floor. The Vulcan managed to keep his seat, but Kirk toppled sideways and practically into his lap. He struggled to right himself, but the ship listed again and more sharply. This time he slid over Spock and onto his other side. He might have gone further if not for the greenish hand that wrapped around his wrist, arresting his fall. Spock pulled him up as the ship leveled out.

"Thanks," said Jim. "Now what the fuck was that?"

Spock's mouth was open to reply when everything turned again, steeper than before. The First Officer did not manage to keep his seat this time and it was his turn to collide with Jim, who wasn't strong enough to hold them both up and so they rolled across the bridge, until they skidded to a halt at the pilot station. They were a mass of tangled limbs and despite the fact that they were in crisis, Kirk couldn't help but to appreciate the way Spock's breath warmed his collarbone through his command shirt.

He lay there, savoring it for five whole seconds, waiting for the Vulcan to get his heavy ass up and into action, but the other officer didn't move. Jim peered worriedly down at his face. His eyes were closed.

The captain wiggled his shoulders. "Spock?" he said softly. "Are you alright?"

"I do not think I am," came the reply and suddenly the First Officer levered himself up onto all fours and crouched over Jim.

The captain looked up into his eyes, the pupils of which were blown wide, and fought down the blood that wanted to rush to his cheeks. He did not blush, goddammit.

"Well, if you'd get off of me, we could probably do something about this mess on our bridge," Jim said, feeling tart. Fucking Vulcans making people forget that they were in the line of, well, not fire, but something.

The First Officer collected himself. "So it would seem, Captain." He was on his feet with inhuman speed. "I believe that we are being dragged by a tractor beam of some sort. Perhaps from a previously unknown craft."

And they were off and running. But Jim had a suspicion now. A giant, huge suspicion that demanded they have a conversation about the night-that-was-not-to-be-remembered. Just as soon as they beat this latest asshole alien.

* * *

**So loosely based on the Corbomite Maneuver that it almost isn't even worth mentioning. Almost.**

**And yes, I know that coordination isn't a body part, but I've had this written for forever, and although I don't really like it, I figured I'd go ahead and burn it off, so that fun stuff can go down next chapter. :)**


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